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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574967">Bedside Manner</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle'>DeathBelle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Atsumu is bad at being sick, But no one has any serious medical conditions, Doctor!Sakusa, Happy Ending, M/M, brief mentions of death, discussion of medical procedures, hospital au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:41:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sakusa has been a doctor for three years and he’s long since fallen into a routine. He diagnoses a patient, treats them, and moves on to the next. He doesn’t linger and he certainly doesn’t build any lasting connections. There’s no time for that in his line of work. </p>
<p>Miya Atsumu, his new appendicitis patient, seems determined to make a lasting impression.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2390</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bedside Manner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/novocaine_sea/gifts">novocaine_sea</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a fic exchange with Aja! 💖</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sakusa had always spent a lot of time washing his hands. When he was a child, it was because his mother constantly reminded him and stood in the doorway to make sure he did it properly. In his teen years it was because he’d adopted some of his mother’s tendencies toward hypochondria and felt germs crawling between his fingers even when there was nothing there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now he did it because he had to, because washing his hands no less than forty times per day would have been a serious health hazard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here’s the chart for room 710, doctor.” A nurse offered a clipboard. “I’ll check with surgery and see when they can get him in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That wasn’t the nurse’s job, but Sakusa didn’t argue. He’d learned a long time ago that nurses were better at medicine than most doctors; especially Shimizu Kiyoko. If she said the person in room 710 needed surgery, they certainly did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” He dried off his hands, took the clipboard, and glanced through the new paperwork.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Male. Twenty-nine years old. Complaints: severe pain in lower right abdomen, mild fever, chills, nausea, vomiting. The mildly competent ER doctor who’d seen the patient initially, before he’d been moved into a room on the upper floors, had ordered a CT scan. Sakusa flipped over to it, although there was no need. He diagnosed the problem before eyeing the scan, and that only cemented his conclusion. He tucked the clipboard under his arm, nodded politely to the orderly waiting for their turn at the sink, and stepped past the nurse’s station to pace down the hallway. There were forty patient rooms on this floor, and Sakusa pointedly did not look into any of them as he passed by. Eye contact was an open invitation to ask questions, and Sakusa didn’t have time for that, not when he was the only attending doctor on this floor for the next two hours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Room 710 was around the corner, near the end of a white tiled hallway. The door was half-closed, and Sakusa gave a cursory knock before entering.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The patient was too distracted to notice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I toldja, it’s fine!” He was sprawled in his hospital bed, one leg on top of the sheets, his hospital gown bunched up at his hips. Sakusa was quietly grateful the patient was wearing sweatpants underneath. “It’s not like I’m dyin’ or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa looked around the room, in case he’d missed someone, but it was empty. He checked the chart again but saw no noted mental health concerns. If the patient was having hallucinations or delusions, they may need to proceed differently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, dumbass. That’s a four hour train ride. Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa took a step back toward the door. Maybe he had the wrong chart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The patient rolled his eyes, and snapped his head around when he caught sight of Sakusa hovering in the doorway. “Oh!” he said. He sat up out of his slouch, winced, and sank back again. A cell phone slid from the crook of his shoulder and flopped onto the bedsheets. “Hey. Sorry. Lemme just…” He scrabbled for the phone and pushed it against his ear. “I’ll call ya back, somebody’s in here. I dunno, a doctor probably. He’s wearin’ a white coat. You’re a doctor, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” said Sakusa flatly. “I’m a doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s a doctor,” repeated the patient – Miya Atsumu, Sakusa discovered after another glance at the chart. “Yeah, I already said I’ll call ya. Don’t get on a train. I’m serious, ‘Samu. No, don’t call mom either. ‘Bye.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya tossed the phone aside and sat up straighter against his pillows. This time he used his hands to push himself up and tried to keep the pain off of his face, but Sakusa saw it anyway. “Sorry, I was arguin’ with my brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clearly.” Sakusa studied the chart again, just so he didn’t have to continue looking at Miya. “Confirm your name and date of birth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya did, and Sakusa flipped another page. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would you rate your current pain, on a scale from one to ten?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya shrugged. “Not bad. Like a four maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was intentionally underestimating. It was probably a seven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa stepped closer and placed the clipboard at the foot of Miya’s bed. Physical contact with patients was the worst part of his job, but at least Miya wasn’t contagious. It could be worse. “Lift your gown up,” said Sakusa, as he snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves, “so I can touch your stomach.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya curled a hand at the edge of his gown. “The guy downstairs already poked around. Do you hafta do it again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why does it matter? Did it hurt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya hesitated. “Not really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was a liar, and a bad one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just do it,” said Sakusa, stepping up to the edge of the bed. He paused, remembered his recent reprimand from the director regarding his lacking bedside manner, and added, “It’ll only take a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With obvious reluctance, Miya eased up the hospital gown. His stomach was flat and muscled. If Sakusa hadn’t already known by the team logo stamped on the leg of his sweatpants, he would’ve guessed Miya was an athlete of some sort. That was likely why he was uncomfortable. Someone like Miya wouldn’t have spent much time in a hospital bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to press lightly,” said Sakusa, grazing gloved fingertips over Miya’s side. “Tell me when it hurts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya nodded, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa pushed down near Miya’s navel, then close to his ribcage. Nothing. He moved down a little, pressed, and-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Miya leaned into his pillows, as if trying to escape Sakusa’s roaming hand. His eyes were pain-bright, lower lip indented from the pressure of his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On a scale of one to ten,” said Sakusa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seven probably. Maybe eight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ten</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa hummed as he stepped back to peel his gloves off. “You have appendicitis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya blinked up at him. “Oh. I’ve heard of that. Is it good or bad?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in the hospital, so you can assume it’s not good,” said Sakusa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well obviously, but like… it’ll go away, right?” Miya tugged his gown back down. His skin was flushed from his fever. “I just need to wait it out. That’s what I told the guys but they wouldn’t stop bitchin’, and then coach noticed during our game and pulled me out in the second set and said I had to come to the hospital and-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait.” Sakusa picked up the clipboard again, but he didn’t need to. He remembered the admittance date. “You played a match like this? Today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only half of one.” Miya said it grudgingly, as if he was bitter that he hadn’t been allowed to play through his severe pain. “Coulda finished out. It wasn’t my best game but I was doin’ okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>During his three years as a doctor, Sakusa had almost quelled the urge to slap his patients. He felt it again now. “Are you stupid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was an important game!” said Miya, as if that made a difference. “We lost against the Falcons last time and Aran-kun keeps bringin’ it up. We needed to win.” He slumped a little and badly suppressed another wince. “But Shouyou won’t tell me what the final score was which means we didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa had no idea what he was talking about, but it did answer his question. Miya was clearly stupid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you hadn’t come to the hospital you would have risked rupturing your appendix,” said Sakusa. “It could have killed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya’s scowl remained. “Yeah, well. It didn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bedside manner</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sakusa repeated it to himself like a mantra. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bedside manner, bedside manner, bedside-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe next time.” It was the most sympathetic thing Sakusa could say, and he belatedly realized it could be interpreted toward Miya’s death rather than his winning of a match. Miya didn’t seem offended, so Sakusa didn’t take it back. “Since you got here in time, a simple surgery will take care of-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait. Stop. Hold on.” Miya sat up again, and although his jaw clenched against the pain, he was undeterred. “What do you mean, surgery?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa should have gotten one of the interns to break the news. “It’s a very minor surgery. Nothing to be alarmed about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you said it’ll just go away if I wait it out!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did not say that. You said that, and you were wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is bullshit, I don’t have time for-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you miss the part where I said your appendix will rupture and you could die?” said Sakusa, cutting him off. “I doubt you have time for that, either. The surgery isn’t optional.” His pager beeped, and he glanced at the new message. “You’ll get it done first thing in the morning. Surgery has a spot open at seven.” He flipped a couple of pages and made a note. When he tucked his pen back into his pocket, he found Miya still staring at him, his mouth slightly open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shine in his eyes was still pain, but something else, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The surgeon will consult with you sometime before then,” said Sakusa. He tucked the clipboard back underneath his arm. He was done here. “He will explain the process and the recovery time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not gonna do the surgery?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bedside manner, bedside manner, bedside manner…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a doctor,” said Sakusa, emphasizing the title. “Not a surgeon. I have no desire to cut anyone open.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the wrong thing to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya grabbed his right side as he eased closer to the edge of the bed, panicked. “Someone’s gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>cut me open</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa took a deep breath. “It will be a small incision. They’ll likely do a laparoscopic appendectomy. It’s the least invasive, and the scarring will be minimal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya’s hand went tighter at his side. “But what does that </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span>? There’s a game next Saturday and I’ve gotta play. And we have a tournament comin’ up soon, we’ve got a lot of trainin’ before-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The recovery time is typically three to four weeks,” said Sakusa. “You won’t be doing much of anything before then. Come to terms with it now, because if you push yourself before you’re healed, you’ll make it worse and be out for longer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya tried to lean closer, but the IV taped to the crook of his left arm pulled and he sat back again. “But… I don’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa studied Miya’s face. He was pale underneath his fever flush, his eyes a little hollow, blond hair lank where it fell across his brow. He was the same as most of Sakusa’s patients; sick, unhappy, and in denial. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll have the nurse bring you more pain medication.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t argue.” Sakusa looked back at him from the doorway. “Suffering through the pain when you don’t have to doesn’t mean you’re tough, it means you’re stubborn and stupid. Just take it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya slouched back with a scowl but didn’t argue. That was probably his way of agreeing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa took one last look at him, shut the door, and went about his work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t think of Miya Atsumu again for a while. There were too many patients, too much to do, and too many names and faces that got lost in the shuffle of everyday routine. Sakusa was always too busy to think of one particular thing for more than a few minutes at a time, and then he was thinking of something different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he was very abruptly reminded of Miya’s existence when he took a corner and nearly walked directly into him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa reeled a few steps back, which was fortunate. Miya didn’t budge at all, likely because he was in too much pain to move quickly. He gave Sakusa a smile that was clearly forced, almost a grimace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, there you are. Been lookin’ for ya.” He’d slipped on his name-brand shoes, the backs crumpled beneath his heels. He carried his IV bag at his side, like a matching accessory to his hospital gown. “I thought you’d come back and see if I was still alive or somethin’ and you never did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa stared at him. He reconsidered making a request for a psychiatric consult. “There’s a button on your bed to page a nurse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well yeah, but you’re not a nurse, are ya, sensei?” Miya eyed Sakusa’s chest, and Sakusa didn’t know what he was looking for until Miya said, “What’s your name anyway? You didn’t introduce yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa glanced down, although he already knew his name wasn’t stitched onto his coat. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sakusa-sensei,” he repeated. His smile hitched a little higher and this time it almost reached his eyes. “I’m Atsumu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Guess ya do.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go back to your room and get into bed,” said Sakusa. He checked the chart in his hand; he suddenly couldn’t remember where he’d been going. “You’ll get worse if you keep moving around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who cares if I get worse if I’ve gotta have surgery anyway.” Miya’s face twisted as he said it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have restraints for patients who don’t follow doctor’s orders,” said Sakusa flatly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Kinky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa’s eyes went narrow. He turned on his heel and started off in the opposite direction, although that clearly wasn’t the way to – he checked the chart again – room 732. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, I was jokin’. Wait up.” Miya struggled after him, his right arm tucked tightly against his side. He was slightly hunched, but still taller than he’d looked laid out in his hospital bed. “When will you come by my room to check on me again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Sakusa stopped walking. He thought it would look bad if a patient was injured while chasing him down the hallway. “Tomorrow, before you’re discharged.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do a final check to make sure the surgery went well. Otherwise the nurse on duty will take care of anything you need.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re my doctor,” said Miya. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I need your help. Don’t you care about your patients?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That seemed like a trick question. Sakusa didn’t know how to answer without sounding rude, so he settled on asking, “What do you need?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya tried to reach into his pocket, got derailed by the flap of his gown, and finally unearthed his cell phone. He held it out and said, “My battery died. Can I borrow your charger?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa had been asked a lot of dumb questions by his patients, but this one caught him off guard. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My battery.” Miya said it slowly, as if that would help Sakusa understand. “I didn’t charge it before the match and it died. I’ve gotta call my brother, that idiot’s prob’ly here in Tokyo already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a phone in your room,” said Sakusa. “Which is where you should be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya rolled his eyes, as if Sakusa was the idiot in this conversation. “No shit, sensei. I don’t know his number. He changed it a couple months back and I can’t remember it. I only know mom’s and if I call her and ask for it, she’ll know somethin’ is wrong. And she gets real stressed real easy, I don’t want her to know I’m sick until I’m all fixed up and back home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were many ways to respond to that, and the worst one was, “Don’t call me sensei.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya’s eyebrows rose. He was sickly pale; his fever must have gone down. “Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sounds sarcastic when you say it.” A nurse passed by and gave the pair of them a curious look before disappearing into the adjacent hallway. “I don’t have a charger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you think you’re smart since you’re a doctor and all,” said Miya, “but I’m not stupid, sensei. Sakusa. Whatever. You have the same phone as me, I saw you carryin’ it around when you walked by my room earlier. You’ve gotta have a charger somewhere in this place. Lemme borrow it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not letting you-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I know you don’t actually care about me,” said Miya. He leaned a shoulder against the wall as if casually propping himself up, but the twitch of his expression suggested he might have fallen into the floor without that support. “You see people all day every day. I get it. But I really need to talk to my brother, alright? I’m not gonna steal it from you or anything. I’ll give it back. Just… c’mon. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa tapped the clipboard against his outer thigh. He could page security and have them sternly escort Miya back to his room. The restraints had been an idle threat, but an officer posted outside his door would at least stop him from wandering around unsupervised. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya’s eyebrows pulled together and his jaw clenched tight, his shoulders hunching in a little further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you go back to your room, get into your bed, and promise you won’t leave again, I’ll bring you a charger.” Sakusa hated himself even as he said it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya’s smile was weak, but genuine. “Okay. Yeah, okay, deal. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t listen I’ll throw your phone out the window.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya snorted. “Sure ya will. Thanks, sensei. Sakusa. I’ll just…” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder and turned to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your room is that way,” said Sakusa, pointing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Right.” Miya changed course and offered Sakusa a wan smile as he drifted by. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa almost went with him, to make sure he found his way without injuring himself. But he had a feeling Miya was too stubborn to pass out in the hallway, so he checked the chart in his hand one more time and finally went to the correct room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa went back to room 710 as soon as he had a free moment to spare. He thought if he waited, Miya would get impatient and come looking for him again. He imagined trying to explain to the hospital director why a patient had fallen down the stairwell and broken their leg while searching for their doctor. It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya was back in bed, as promised. He appeared to be asleep, but when Sakusa’s footsteps shuffled closer, his eyes half-opened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” mumbled Miya, “ya came back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa offered the charger coiled around his hand. “Here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya started to reach for it, but pulled his hand back. “Could you, uh… plug it in for me? I can’t reach the thing.” He gestured toward the ‘thing’, which was the nearest outlet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa’s stare was flat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon,” said Atsumu. He blinked, and his eyes stayed closed a little too long before they found Sakusa again. “I’ve gotta have surgery, be nice to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa had seen him in the hallway no more than thirty minutes ago, but Atsumu’s condition seemed worse. Maybe his overexertion while ill was beginning to catch up with him. Sakusa would put in an order for some more medication. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He popped the charger plug into the outlet and passed the cord to Atsumu, who clumsily popped it into his phone. Atsumu grinned up at him, his eyes a little hazy. “Thanks, Sakusa. You’re not so bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t return it, I’ll add it onto your hospital bill,” said Sakusa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu snorted softly. “I’ll give it back. It’s not like I’m goin’ anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa eyed him one more time, adjusted the crooked IV bag, and turned to leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey. Sakusa.” There was a rustle of papery sheets. “Will you come back and check on me again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa didn’t turn back. “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno. Kinda makes me feel better. Please?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. He was starting to feel something like sympathy for Miya, which was ridiculous. He dealt with much worse diagnoses than Miya’s and felt nothing at all. He needed the detachment to be a good doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But instead of politely excusing himself, Sakusa said, “I’ll be back for my charger.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miya was smiling. Sakusa didn’t look, but he knew anyway. “Okay. Thanks, Sakusa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa left the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He regretted telling Miya not to call him sensei, no matter how sarcastic it had sounded in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa shook his head, walked away from Miya’s room, and went back to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He intended to wait until the very end of his shift to go back to Miya’s room for his phone charger, but two hours later he passed by number 710 during his last break and found himself stopping. The door was cracked. Sakusa distinctly remembered closing it, and he wondered if Miya was wandering the hallways again. He eased the door inward and paused when he caught voices beyond.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-thirty more minutes, if I could’ve gotten through one more set-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut your stupid loud mouth ‘Tsumu, you shouldn’t’ve played at all. You knew you were sick. Thought you would’ve learned to take care of yourself by now, you’re s’posed to be an adult.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you, ‘Samu.” Miya’s voice was stronger than before, but still thready compared to the one that must have been his brother’s. “Thought I just had indigestion or somethin’, I dunno. I knew it was gettin’ worse and I woulda came to the hospital after the match, I just… we needed that win.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and the team needs you in one piece for the rest of the season, dumbass.” There was a creak, probably the chair beside Miya’s bed. “If you’d ruptured somethin’ you woulda been out for a whole lot longer. The surgery woulda been worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would you even know-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Googled it on the way here. Long train ride.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, ya don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa pushed the door open further and entered the room. Both Miyas looked at him, and they were so similar that it was startling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you came back!” Miya – the sick Miya, Atsumu – seemed pleased about that. He was still piled up in his bed, his hair pushed back, sheets flung to the side as if he’d gotten too warm. “This is my brother, Osamu. ‘Samu, this is Sakusa-sensei. He’s the mean doctor I toldja about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other Miya – Osamu – raised an eyebrow at Sakusa. “I’d be mean too, if I had to deal with your whiny ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, ‘Samu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m just here for my charger,” said Sakusa, nodding toward the cord still plugged into the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right.” Atsumu tried and failed to reach for it. His wince was subtle, but Sakusa saw it, and apparently Osamu did, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here.” Osamu rose from his creaking chair to yank the charger out of the wall and offer it to Sakusa. As Sakusa took it, Osamu added, “Thanks for takin’ care of my brother. Sorry he’s annoyin’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quit it, ‘Samu!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not a problem,” said Sakusa. He rolled the cord around his hand. “He should recover just fine after surgery, if he doesn’t push himself. He’ll need to take it easy for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” said Osamu. He had Atsumu’s face, but everything else about him seemed different. He was calmer, clearly more reasonable. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop talkin’ about me like I’m not here!” whined Atsumu. “I can take care of myself just fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Obviously not, ya fuckin’ idiot,” said Osamu. “You’d be dead on a volleyball court somewhere if you had your way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t have-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to finish my rounds,” said Sakusa, excusing himself from the inevitable argument. “If you need anything, page a nurse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, wait!” said Atsumu, as Sakusa reached the door. “When’s your shift over?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So will ya be comin’ back or-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa left the room before Atsumu could finish the question. He shoved the rolled-up charger into his pocket and walked away briskly, before one of the Miyas could call after him. He’d already spent more time talking with Atsumu than he should, more than he spent with a usual patient. It wasn’t because Sakusa didn’t care about them; it was just dangerous to care too much. People died in hospitals. That was inevitable, and Sakusa couldn’t let himself get too invested in the fate of his patients. Of course he wanted them all to make it, and he did everything he could to keep them alive. But sometimes they died anyway, and if Sakusa was too invested in any particular patient, it hurt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu’s risk of dying from his surgery was extremely low, almost nonexistent, but that didn’t mean Sakusa should get any more attached to him than he did with anyone else. It was pointless. Atsumu would get discharged after his surgery, and neither of them would think of the other ever again. If Atsumu happened to show back up for another medical problem a year from now, it would be like meeting for the first time again. They wouldn’t remember each other. That’s how things worked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa would meet with him tomorrow after the surgery to sign off on his discharge paperwork. He would say “good luck, I hope we don’t see you again anytime soon” the same way he did with all of his other patients, and that would be the end of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa’s shift ended at eight that night. He finished up his paperwork, organized everything for the next rotation of doctors, and took off his white coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should’ve gone straight for the exit like he did every night. Instead he went to room 710, and regretted every single step that took him there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t knock. Atsumu was probably asleep. Sakusa hoped he was asleep, because then he could just slip away and pretend he hadn’t made a final, unnecessary trip to this room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa opened the door slowly. It was quieter than last time; Osamu had most likely left. Visiting hours ended at eight, which was often a source of contention with patients’ families. There was no sound at all, and Sakusa decided Atsumu was asleep like he’d suspected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He withdrew, started to close the door again, and heard a loud, wet sniffle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa should walk away. This wasn’t his problem. He was off the clock, he should walk away, he didn’t need-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa pushed the door open and slipped into the room. Atsumu was curled up on his left side, facing away from the door, bundled up in the stark white bedsheets. He made a low noise, sniffed again, and raised a hand to wipe at his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miya?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu went stiff. He turned slowly to peer over his shoulder at Sakusa. His eyes were wet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is the pain worse?” asked Sakusa. He moved closer and reached for Atsumu’s arm, squeezing around his wrist to check his pulse. “I can increase the dosage of your medication if you think you need it. If it’s more severe we may need to order another scan, to make sure your appendix hasn’t burst. Which symptoms have changed? Your heart rate seems fine, I’ll check your temperature and-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“’m fine,” murmured Atsumu. He turned his face into the pillow. “I feel the same. Don’t need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa stared down at him. “What’s wrong, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu yanked the sheets up higher, hiding half of his face. He sniffed. “Nothin’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa didn’t often feel helpless, but he did now. He glanced around the room, as if seeking the source of Atsumu’s discomfort, and found nothing. He checked the IV bag, just to feel like he was doing something, and turned back to Atsumu. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. I can’t read your mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why are you-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not cryin’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa huffed a breath. He hated stubborn patients. They were the worst sort to deal with. He stepped away from Miya, but instead of leaving like he should have done, he grabbed a box of tissues off of the shelf. He placed it on the bed, just inside the low rail. He folded his arms and waited until one of Atsumu’s hands snaked from beneath the sheets to snatch at a tissue. He didn’t say thank you, but Sakusa didn’t expect him to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose your brother had to leave,” said Sakusa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Atsumu blew his nose. It sounded disgusting. “He got a room for the night. He’ll be back in the mornin’ to see if I die or not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He said that so offhandedly that Sakusa was almost convinced he was joking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa sat in the chair Osamu had previously used. It creaked beneath his weight. “You won’t die in surgery, Miya. This is one of the most common procedures that we do. The risk is extremely low.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu didn’t respond. He reached for another tissue and used this one to wipe his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The last person I remember dying from an appendectomy at this hospital was a 76-year-old woman,” said Sakusa. “She had other underlying health conditions. You’re young, you’re healthy, and you’ll recover from the surgery quickly. A month from now you’ll think it was stupid that you were so worried about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe,” mumbled Atsumu.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa sighed and sat back in the chair. He’d never been good at this sort of thing. “Your surgeon is excellent. He was the top of his class, and he’s already one of the best surgeons in the city.” Sakusa paused, and unnecessarily added, “We’re cousins. I know he does good work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu muttered something. It didn’t sound like a full sentence, and Sakusa didn’t ask him to repeat himself. He stayed quiet and waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu uncovered his face and raised his head to look at Sakusa, just for a moment, before lying down again. “I don’t really get sick,” he said quietly. “I got a couple colds in high school, and I had the flu a few years back, but that’s it. I don’t go to the doctor much. Never needed to. So what if…” he hesitated, swallowed. “What if this is just the first thing. What if I start gettin’ sick all the time now? I’ll miss practices, and play bad in matches, and coach will kick me off the team. Then what’ll I do? I’m not good at anything else. Volleyball is all I’ve got. I’ll live on the streets and starve to death.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t imagine your brother would let you die on the streets.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not the point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” Sakusa studied Atsumu as he continued sulking. Even pale and sickly, Atsumu was handsome. He looked a lot like his brother, but at the same time he didn’t. “When you were admitted, they tested you for other things, too. You’re perfectly healthy, Miya. This couldn’t have been prevented, no matter how well you take care of yourself. Things like this happen sometimes. As long as you give yourself time to heal afterward, you’ll be just fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never had anesthesia,” said Atsumu. “What if I’m allergic?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa rolled his eyes. “You’re not allergic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu snorted into his pillow. It almost sounded like a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll be just fine. I promise.” Sakusa never made promises to his patients, especially not a promise like that, but he thought Atsumu needed to hear it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu plucked out one more tissue, but he didn’t use it. He just clutched it in his hand and blankly stared at it. “When are you leaving?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa checked his watch. It was eight-fifteen. He should’ve been out of the building and on his way home by now. He glanced at Atsumu and said, “I’m off at nine. It’s slow tonight. I can sit with you until then, if you’d like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Sakusa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa had the morning shift the following day, which meant he started at seven-thirty. He arrived at seven, just as Atsumu was getting wheeled into surgery. He’d thought he would have time to speak with him before he went into the OR; usually surgery ran behind at least a half hour. But they were exactly on time, and that was fine. Sakusa didn’t need to see him. It didn’t matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stood in front of the OR doors for longer than was necessary, considering he couldn’t see anything inside. He chided himself for his own stupidity and took the elevator to the seventh floor to get a head start on his rounds. On his way up he sent a text to Komori, asking him to give an update on the appendectomy patient when the surgery was complete. It was ridiculous, but Sakusa couldn’t help himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course Atsumu would be fine. Sakusa had told him that the night before, and he’d meant it. It was a simple surgery. Basic. Easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa checked his watch twelve times over the next hour as he did his rounds. He flipped through a half dozen charts, caught up on his patients’ changes from last night, and spoke with the new ones who’d arrived since his last shift ended. Then he found himself at room 710, although he knew Atsumu wasn’t back yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was right. Atsumu wasn’t there, but another Miya was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu blinked out of his blank stare to focus on Sakusa. “Oh. Hey. Is ‘Tsumu done yet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, he’s still down in surgery.” Sakusa checked his phone again. No messages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that… normal? Feels like it’s been a long time.” Osamu shifted uncomfortably and the chair creaked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s normal. If anything had gone wrong, I would have been informed.” That was partially true. Sakusa would know, but not until afterward. “He should be out anytime.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu inclined his head. “Alright. Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa nodded in return and went to the next room. He tried to remember the last time he’d spoken to a patient’s family voluntarily and couldn’t. He always avoided those types of conversations when possible. He wasn’t very comforting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed as he knocked on the next door down the hall and went inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>About half an hour later, Sakusa’s phone chimed. He wanted to snatch it out of his pocket and check the message, but had to ignore it. He was halfway through a conversation with a new patient about their diabetes diagnosis, and bad bedside manner aside, he wasn’t rude enough to check his phone in front of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wrapped up the discussion several minutes later and stepped into the hallway, phone already in hand. The message was from Komori.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>All good, just finished up. Why? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa didn’t respond, partially because he didn’t know the answer. He shouldn’t have been so concerned about Atsumu. He was one patient among hundreds. Just because he was charismatic, and had a handsome face, and his eyes lit up when he smiled at Sakusa...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa shoved his phone back into his pocket and went to check on his next patient. He didn’t have time for this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he did have time to pace by room 710 every fifteen minutes, waiting for Atsumu to get wheeled back up from the OR. Sakusa knew it would take some time. He would be monitored in a recovery room until he was stable and responsive, and depending on how hard the anesthesia hit him, that could take a while. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa checked his watch several more times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, on his fifth trip past room 710, Osamu was no longer alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa entered the room without deciding to do so, pausing just inside to listen to Atsumu’s low slur. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pokin’ around in my insides and shit. How weird is that? They like… took somethin’ out of me. What’d they do with it, ‘Samu? Did they put it in a jar?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa laughed under his breath. He couldn’t help it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s in a jar,” said Osamu, his grin clear in his voice. “They’re gonna do tests on it and figure out why you’re such a dumbass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey! I just had surgery, you’ve gotta be nice to me. I coulda died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t have died,” said Sakusa. He stepped closer to the bed and refused to be pleased by the way Atsumu smiled up at him, a little blearily. “I told you that already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well yeah, but doctors are wrong sometimes.” Atsumu’s eyes were heavy, and his grin was more crooked than it had been yesterday, but overall he seemed fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu’s grin pulled higher. “Yeah, maybe. You were right this time. I feel great.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the medication,” said Sakusa. He glanced at the screen by Atsumu’s bed, watching the tick of his pulse. It looked normal. For confirmation, he squeezed Atsumu’s wrist between his fingers and tracked his heartbeat. “When it wears off you won’t feel great, but as long as you’re careful, you’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Careful,” repeated Osamu, skeptical. “He’s never been careful a day in his life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well he has to be now,” said Sakusa. He dropped Atsumu’s wrist, satisfied, and addressed Atsumu directly. “If you push yourself, you’ll be knocked out of volleyball for even longer. I’ll give you instructions before you’re discharged. If you follow them exactly, you’ll be back to practice soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful.” He leaned his head back against his pillows. His eyes were half-closed, but he was still smiling. “Thanks, Sakusa. For lookin’ out for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m your doctor. I don’t have a choice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but you’ve been real nice to me.” Atsumu’s eyes closed and stayed that way for a few seconds until he blinked them open again. “I was scared and you helped. Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.” Sakusa glanced to Osamu and then back to Atsumu again. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you in a little while. You’ll likely be discharged later tonight, as long as you’re recovering well. Push the call button if you need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“’Kaaay,” said Atsumu, dragging the word. “See ya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa took one last look at him, checked the vitals on the screen again, and went back to work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa nearly kept Atsumu overnight for further observation, just to be safe. But his vitals held strong, there wasn’t any unexpected pain, and once the anesthesia wore off, Atsumu was just as vibrant and alert as he’d been the day before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been in here a lot,” said Atsumu, the fifth time Sakusa dropped by his room. “Should I be worried? Do you think I’m gonna fall over dead or somethin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m your doctor. I’m doing my job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” said Atsumu with that charming, annoying smile. He moved in the bed and winced, just barely. “I’m not complainin’. You’re good company.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the chair by the bed, Osamu rolled his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well you’re awful company,” said Sakusa. “I can’t wait to get you out of my hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu grinned as if he didn’t believe that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At six-thirty that evening, Sakusa signed off on Atsumu’s discharge paperwork. Osamu had left the room when he’d gotten confirmation that Atsumu was getting released. He needed to arrange a ride to the hotel he’d booked for another night, and most importantly, he had to call their mother, who still hadn’t been informed of Atsumu’s illness. Sakusa sat in the vacant chair by Atsumu’s bed as he reviewed the paperwork, reciting instructions and possible side effects by memory while Atsumu flipped through the papers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And don’t even think about going to volleyball practice for at least three weeks, maybe more,” said Sakusa. “You’ll have to get cleared by your own doctor first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why’s that?” said Atsumu. He shuffled through the pages one last time before putting them aside. “You can clear me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m guessing from context that you don’t live in Tokyo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah. Osaka, now. That’s where the team is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then that’s why.” Sakusa sat back in the chair. His phone chimed, and he checked it only to make sure it was nothing important. He hadn’t been paged in the past few minutes, so he thought he had some time to spare. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I travel a lot,” said Atsumu. “Won’t hurt me to make the trip.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be a waste of your time, Miya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa didn’t argue with him. He felt it was largely pointless to argue with someone like Atsumu, and he also didn’t think he would mind too much if he saw Atsumu one more time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what if I have questions?” asked Atsumu, scooping the paperwork back up and rustling it in Sakusa’s direction. “This is a lot of information. I could get confused.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call the hospital,” said Sakusa. “Someone will help you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span> to help me,” said Atsumu. He sat up a little more, a crease in his brow. He already seemed better than he had the day before, but Sakusa knew that was a blend of medication and relief. He would likely whine all night long. Sakusa hoped Osamu didn’t smother him in the early hours of the morning. “I can’t trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What if I have a question that only you can answer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are plenty of people here who are experienced with appendectomies,” said Sakusa. “Any of them could-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not true,” said Atsumu, cutting him short. He half-smiled, his hazel eyes almost golden in the light of the sun setting through the window. “There’s lots of stuff only you can answer. Like… do you wanna go get dinner next time I’m in Tokyo?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa exhaled slowly. He hadn’t expected that. “I think the medication is making you delusional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu huffed a breath that likely would have been a laugh if he hadn’t been afraid of hurting himself. “Nah, I know what I’m sayin’.” He pushed his paperwork toward Sakusa. “I think you should write your number down for me. In case I have any questions like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa looked at the pages, the edges already crumpled from Atsumu’s fidgeting. He didn’t pause to think of all the reasons it was a bad idea. He simply plucked his pen from his pocket and clicked it. “I suppose it’s the responsible thing to do, as a medical professional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” said Atsumu, grinning as Sakusa neatly printed his phone number on the top of a page. “That’s the reason.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa returned his smile, briefly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osamu barged back into the room, somewhat clumsily as he was pushing a wheelchair. “One of the nurses got me this. They said they’d take ya downstairs, but I offered to do it. Think we can find somebody to race down the hall?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Atsumu laughed, and tucked his right arm against his side as he winced. “Yeah, ‘course we can. There’s lots of old people in wheelchairs around here, we’ll beat all of ‘em.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Choose a different floor,” said Sakusa as he stood. “Don’t disturb my patients.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah.” Atsumu grinned up at him. “You done with me, Sakusa?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sakusa wasn’t, but for the purpose of this conversation he said, “Yes. You’re free to go. Change back into your clothes and leave the gown on the bed, someone will clean up after you.” Typically he sent a patient off with some variation of </span>
  <em>
    <span>call the hospital if you have any problems</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but this time he said, “Call me if you need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will,” said Atsumu, and it sounded like a promise. “Thanks for keepin’ me alive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, thanks.” Osamu said it sarcastically, but Sakusa knew he meant it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome. Take care of yourself, Atsumu.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of the brothers said “’Bye”, and Sakusa sidestepped the wheelchair and left the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Typically the discharge was the last time he heard from a patient, unless complications or a new ailment brought them back. He didn’t expect Atsumu would have any complications at all, and judging by his health history, he wouldn’t be sick again in the near future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Sakusa thought – </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped</span>
  </em>
  <span> – he would see Atsumu again soon. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28766484">病房礼仪</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yening/pseuds/Yening">Yening</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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